


The Gathering Dusk

by tardis_coffin



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Slow Burn, percival graves is probably ooc, this is so bad bc I wrote it so quickly, why must my sons suffer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:23:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardis_coffin/pseuds/tardis_coffin
Summary: Percival Graves patrols New York, never thinking he might be looking for more than just Grindelwald's cronies. Across the city, Credence wakes.





	1. Chapter 1

Credence is alone, in the dark, and while that was never a new feeling for him, this is different.

In his mind’s eye he sees brilliant light attacking him, tearing him apart; the pain of a thousand diamonds wrenching him away from life.  
From life?  
But he is _here_.  
Where is here?  
He shakes himself, finding himself present. He has a solid body, for the first time in what feels like forever. He is on the ground—the ground! So reassuring!—and he is whole.  
He sits, then stands. He is in a darkened alley, city noise muffled by the brick buildings surrounding him. He's wearing the same ill-fitting, tattered suit and shoes, and when he stumbles out onto the street he recognizes Broadway.  
Several thoughts hit him as he walks around, staring bewilderedly at the buildings. First—a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, a stick in his grip and words of power falling from his lips, a man he'd forgotten to admit his feelings about. Second—Ma, her lifeless eyes still mocking him in death. Credence shudders and huffs, his breath coming out as steam in the chilly night air. That is something he’ll see behind his eyes until the day he dies.

  
The nights are dark for Percival.  
His aurors found him hidden away in his own apartment, waiting for Grindelwald to kill him. Three months of hell had driven him to the edge; it had taken several days before the healers at MACUSA could pull him back to himself.  
Tonight, as has become his routine, he strides through the streets as though demons are at his heels, pressing on into the early hours of the morning. Though Grindelwald is safely put away, his followers mass for attacks often. Graves patrols the streets late, never thinking he might be looking for more than just Grindelwald fanatics.  
He remembers Credence, of course. The lovely boy in barely more than rags, whom he'd helped out of concern and sheer curiosity, though he knew he was breaking laws. He had come to care what happened to him. When at last he had felt the boy’s latent power, it had been too late—Grindelwald had found Graves too soon at his apartment, and Graves had been locked away in agony. He can only imagine what Grindelwald could have done to the boy during the three lost months. How Credence could have suffered at Grindelwald’s hands—Graves’ _own_ hands. What a fool he was to talk to Credence, what a fool he was to think that he could maintain a normal relationship. All it had done was kill a boy, a lovely shining boy who hadn't deserved what he got. He walks faster, past the faint whispers of jazz issuing from clubs No-Maj and wizarding alike, father into the city’s unforgiving dark.

  
Credence hears something—not in the traditional sense, not with his ears. Something deeper and infinitely more painful, pulling him forward and into the New York City night. He hurries through the streets, away from Broadway and through thoroughfares he isn't sure he knew existed. He follows the inner sound, keeping pace and then slowly gaining, until he reaches a corner.  
Under the flickering street lamp stands a man in a long dark coat. He is looking down or away; he does not see Credence approach him, take in his salt-and-pepper hair, his jawline. When he turns, his eyes widen.  
Credence swallows. Knows why he’s followed this man’s emotion. This is Percival Graves. This is the man who _betrayed_ him.

  
“Credence,” Graves breathes, hardly daring to believe what his eyes are so clearly telling him. The boy in front of him, alive and well, would be such a blessing, one Graves doesn't deserve in any capacity. “You're alive.”  
Credence chokes on a reply. “You—you didn't save me,” and Graves’ mind reels. Of course Credence doesn't know about Grindelwald. “My boy,” he says quietly, “I tried my hardest. A dark wizard made himself look like me—made himself into me, though I tried to stop him.” His mind returns, however briefly, to his little room, Grindelwald torturing him with spell after spell. He wonders if this is what it's like for Credence, remembering his mother.  
Credence swallows. “Then—then he didn't save me. I thought I was dead, Mr. Graves—“  
He looks down at his feet, as if ready for a reprimand, and Graves thinks, _old_ _habits_ _die_ _hard_. “Credence,” he says aloud (and he knows this will hurt him, knows the boy’s inevitable answer), “Can you forgive me for losing to him? Can you—forgive me, dear boy, for leaving you alone to face him and your mother?”  
Credence looks up, shoulders still hunched, but his face seems more open and (Graves dares to hope) kind. “I'm sorry, I--”  
Graves grabs Credence’s shoulder, cutting him off. “Don't apologize. Please. It's hardly your fault, my boy. If—if it's too painful to see me…”  
Credence puts his hand on top of Graves’, knowing somehow that it's the right thing to do. “Mr. Graves—let me help. I want to see you. I-I want to forgive you. If you'll only—please, sir, I care.”

Graves raises his eyes to Credence's and thinks, _this might be a shot at redemption._  

 


	2. Chapter 2

Graves and Credence’s brief moment of mutual understanding is ripped away as a figure Apparates a yard away and raises a wand. Graves’ reaction is instantaneous, hissing, “Get down!” to the young man next to him and reaching for his own wand. He counts the one man, as well as two more creeping out of the shadows at his back. Ducking curses, he shoots back several of his own. He's the Director of Magical Security, and Merlin knows this should be easy—but one glance to Credence too slow, and his shoulder wrenches back with the force of a magical blow. He grunts, grabs Credence’s arm. Apparates.  
They burst into being again, in a corridor. Graves pulls a key from his pocket, striding to a door. His apartment isn't safe—not really, if Gellert Grindelwald could walk right in—but it's the only place he can think of short of the MACUSA cells. And that would involve too many questions.  
Credence catches his breath, panic ghosting over his features. He clutches at the wall, and Graves realized his mistake. “It's…rough for everyone the first time, my boy—I should have thought.” Merlin’s beard, where is his sense? The boy’s never Apparated, doesn't know what's going on. And alone in apartment with a wounded wizard who two weeks ago betrayed him.   
Graves sighs heavily. “Come in. I'll make some tea.” He talks through the pain in his shoulder. He’ll worry about himself once Credence is as safe as possible.   
They step into the apartment, and Graves thinks he must have imagined Credence’s look of concern for him. It's quickly replaced with quiet awe, as if he's never seen finery like this close up. To him, Graves thinks, the stuffed bookshelves, scowling photographs and soft old leather furniture must seem like finery. “Sit anywhere,” he says roughly, shutting the door and resetting his wards. Magic feels like such a chore, and his shoulder throbs with the effort.   
Credence, unsure, stands in the middle of the small parlor. “Can—Mr. Graves, you're hurt—what can I do?”  
Graves winces. He wishes fervently that he hadn't been so clumsy. “If you would—I need to heal myself. Pull out a chair for me?”  
Credence goes to the kitchen table and does so, and Graves collapses into it with a groan. “I've been through worse, but it doesn't make curses hurt any less. Stand clear, my boy.” He pulls off his coat and shirt, muttering words which stop the bleeding and knit the skin. He sighs, releasing tension he didn't know he had. “Now. Did anything hit you?”  
Credence shakes his head, eyes like saucers. _He should have received an Ilvermorny letter eleven years ago,_ Graves thinks. _He shouldn't be cowed at magic, he should be using it every day._ “Good.” What does he say now? Does he offer Credence the spare room, the couch?   
“Mr. Graves, would it help if you ate something?” Credence asks hesitantly. “What do you have?”  
Graves raises his head. “I'm in no condition to do any cooking charms, but you're welcome to explore the cabinets, my boy.” He doesn't mention that he's been eating lunch at MACUSA every day for the past two weeks, with no breakfast or dinner. He hasn't bothered—too many things on his mind.   
As Graves sits at his barely-used kitchen table, Credence gingerly explores his cabinets. If a cabinet door shuts loudly, the young man flinches. Credence finds tea and puts Graves’ old, battered kettle on, then hunts for something more.   
“Credence,” says Graves, half-wanting to just acknowledge him and half concerned, “where would you like to sleep? I have a couch if you’d like…”  
Credence makes fleeting eye contact, then looks away, flushed. “I'd—could I impose on you like that, sir?”   
_You'd have to go a lot farther to really impose, my boy,_ Graves thinks. “It's no trouble at all.”   
“T-thank you, sir.” Credence ducks back to looking into one of Graves’ drawers. “If you—sir, I—do you ever go to the grocer?”  
Graves is startled into laughing. His shoulder twinges. “I suppose I must, but other matters seem to have overtaken it of late.”  
Credence’s head is bent so that Graves can’t see the smile that ghosts across his face.

After a dinner of tea and some slightly stale crackers, Graves makes a mental note to stop by the market in the morning. Credence seems perfectly happy with their hot tea and meager crackers, and that unsettles Graves. What kind of diet must the young man regularly have, to be content with this tiny ration? If Graves felt like even getting up out of the chair, he would pop to a store and order a feast—Credence needs at least that—but at the moment he can't even muster the strength to walk to his room.   
Credence rinses the dishes and cleans up without being asked, only stopping to fervently object when Graves says to leave it till morning. “Really—sir, it's no trouble, sir, I'm fine.”  
Graves doesn't realize what's going on until Credence is helping him to his room, careful to avoid touching the cursed shoulder. Graves stops walking. “You're mollycoddling me.”  
Credence flinches, and Graves says mildly, “I'm not objecting, dear boy, merely realizing. Thank you for thinking of me.”  
Credence’s face is red again, and he looks at his feet. Graves is half-tempted to tip the boy's chin up with a finger, but he forces himself to begin walking again. “There are extra quilts in the armoire, Credence. You may stay here as long as you like.” He almost flinches himself at like, as he'd intended to say need, but a voice in his head tells him that Credence would never want to outstay a need-based welcome.   
“T-thank you, sir,” says Credence plainly, and Graves purses his lips. “Graves is quite all right, my boy. No need to be formal.”  
“Ah, um—yes.” Credence looks uncomfortable.   
“Good. I'll bid you good night, dear boy.”  
“Um. Yes…” the boy gulps. “Good night, Graves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOMETHING coming next chapter. could be hurt/comfort. thank u guys for reading ! !

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking more chapters--maybe I should get more involved (cuddling? something dirtier?) let me know what u guys think


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